Being Something

If I never get out, and never show
I would still be
If never heard, and never seen
Being something
Would still be sweet
If I could never speak
It would still be bright
I hear myself
I see myself
Am ever shown
In invisible, reverent peace

Inkwell

I walked out in the yard
And I was tired but happy
My soul has seen weather
It gets so wound up
Life stirs me up
And now I spill out all my color
My fire burns out into the night
I sit on a ragged blanket
In ripped blue jeans
And I drag on a cigarette
And it fumes out into the air
And the stars are closer to my heart
Than anything else
Here, my color is spilt out everywhere
Under a navy night sky